


As I Have Loved You

by summerofspock



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Scene: Church in London 1941 (Good Omens), Pre-Relationship, Romance, World War II, it's about the yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 13:36:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20640035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerofspock/pseuds/summerofspock
Summary: Aziraphale takes care of Crowley's burned feet after the church scene.





	As I Have Loved You

**Author's Note:**

> inspired entirely by [ spatscolombo's post on tumblr](https://summerofspock.tumblr.com/post/187713762509/here-you-go-my)  
title from the bible (we've finally arrived huh) john 13:34 regarding Maundy Thursday aka the last supper and the washing of the apostles feet:  
"I give you a new commandment: love each other as i have loved you."

The church is gone.

The books are in his lap

And Crowley is in the driver’s seat of a car Aziraphale has never seen before. It’s oil slick black and Crowley drives it far too fast but even if Aziraphale wanted to say something—chide him, tell him to slow down—he couldn’t because all he can think is:

_ You saved the books and I _—

“Your shop then, angel?” Crowley asks out of the side of his mouth. The words are tight between his teeth.

“My..shop…” Aziraphale says. He feels far away like his body is in this car but his heart is back on the floor of that church but, no, more likely it’s in the car but its beating in the chest not four feet from his own.

Crowley takes his eyes off the road and raises his eyebrows at Aziraphale, waiting for a better response than the one Aziraphale gave. He can see the outside edges of his golden eyes above the rims of his sunglasses and Aziraphale swallows around the half-formed words in his throat.

“Yes!” he says now, far too loud, too bright. “My shop is fine.”

“Right,” Crowley says, head swinging on his neck lazily as he returns his focus to the street in front of him and Aziraphale can’t stop staring.

Not at the way his tie hugs the convex of his adam’s apple, or at the shadows of the city lights on his harsh cheekbones, the way his fingers clench and unclench about the wheel.

Aziraphale had looked at Crowley a thousand times. How had he never _ seen_?

The car jerks forward on the shriek of a brake and Crowley hisses. 

“Sorry,” the demon grumbles, but Aziraphale thinks he could crash the car right then and Aziraphale would thank him for it. It would be a fitting way to discorporate.

“It’s quite alright,” Aziraphale says. His hands are sooty from where he has them wrapped around the bag of books in his lap but he can’t let go.

As they cross town Crowley’s breathing starts to escalate in pitch and when Aziraphale finally looks over he sees the sweat gathering on Crowley’s hairline, the white patches of his cheeks.

“Are _ you _ alright?” Aziraphale asks tentatively. Generally a question like that would get him a scathing remark but Crowley only grits his teeth and nods.

Pulling to a stop outside the bookshop, Aziraphale hesitates with his hand on the door. 

“Go on,” Crowley says with a dismissive wave, but Aziraphale can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong.

The world might have just fundamentally changed for him, but he’s always cared about Crowley’s wellbeing and that isn’t going to change just because Aziraphale…

“Wouldn’t you like to come in? It’s been an awfully long time,” Aziraphale says. It feels like a terrible risk, but he doesn’t—he can’t watch Crowley drive away.

Crowley shuts off the engine and for a moment Aziraphale thinks he’s going to say something. Something important. Something like—

“‘Course I’ll come in,” Crowley says and Aziraphale’s newfound heart thrills with possibility.

Aziraphale lets them into the bookshop, noticing the black soot stains on his coat and frowning. It’ll take ages to properly miracle that away.

Crowley enters the bookshop walking stiffly and Aziraphale can’t figure out why. Crowley’s always been all ball-step saunter but this is almost like—

Aziraphale doesn’t realize what’s wrong until Crowley leans on the back of one of his chairs, shifting his weight from foot to foot and grimacing.

“Your feet!” Aziraphale says and Crowley gaze snaps up to meet his.

Fears about the damage to his coat forgotten, Aziraphale pushes Crowley into a chair. “Did the church—I thought you said it was like hot sand, not—”

Baring his teeth, Crowley tries to push Aziraphale away but he’ll have none of it. Crowley might be taller but Aziraphale is stronger so he pushes against the demon’s chest and holds him in place for a moment. 

The bluster goes out of Crowley and without it he looks pale and drawn and terribly, terribly old. 

“Is it very bad?” Aziraphale says, dropping to his knees in front of Crowley and reaching out to inspect the injury.

Crowley sucks a breath between his teeth as Aziraphale takes one of his feet into his lap. Trying to be careful, Aziraphale unlaces the shoes with delicate fingers, removing them slowly. The sock inside is intact but when Aziraphale looks up at Crowley to make sure he can continue, the demon’s head is tipped back against the chair and he’s holding his breath, waiting.

Aziraphale slips the sock off and gasps.

Crowley’s sole is covered in thick welts that lick up the sides of his foot like flames. And where the white welts aren’t risen, the skin is mottled red. Burned.

“Consecrated ground did this?” Aziraphale asks, wanting to do something to fix it. Anything.

“It’s fine, angel,” Crowley says, trying to pull away again. “It’ll heal.”

“It is _ not _ fine. You’re hurt,” Aziraphale insists. “Can’t you...I don’t know...heal it yourself?”

Crowley shakes his head and some of his hair releases from whatever product he uses to slick it back, falling over his forehead. “I can’t. S’like holy water. Not exactly demon power compatible.”

“Oh.”

Aziraphale’s hands fall into his lap. He doesn’t know what to do. Presumably Crowley’s other foot is similarly injured. “Do you think I could—”

Crowley cuts him off before he can even finish the thought. “If _ a floor _ did this to me, what do you think a _ miracle _ will do?”

“Fair point,” Aziraphale says.

He bites his lip and looks around the bookshop before snapping his fingers. A book on medicine flies into his hand and he flips through it.

“Oh just the time for some light reading then?” Crowley says from the chair.

“I’m looking up how to treat burns if you must know,” Aziraphale says primly, still reading and not giving Crowley the dignity of his attention. Yes, he might be injured but he didn’t need to be a child about it.

Putting the book down, Aziraphale looks back down at Crowley’s feet and tries to ignore the stab of guilt he feels. This is _ his _ fault. If he’d just been paying attention, he wouldn’t have gotten into trouble and Crowley wouldn’t have had to come and Aziraphale wouldn’t have... With as much care as he can muster, he removes Crowley’s second shoe, wincing in sympathy when Crowley hisses. “I am so sorry, my dear.”

“My fault really,” Crowley says, again brushing off Aziraphale’s concern. It rankles a bit that he won’t accept Aziraphale’s care. If this was how he acted while Aziraphale was trying to take care of him, how would he react to Aziraphale’s little epiphany in the church? Most likely very poorly.

“You don’t go into a church without accepting some risk, y’know,” Crowley says as he tries to flex his foot. He grunts in pain and Aziraphale pales.

“Did you know this was going to happen?”

Crowley’s silence speaks for itself.

“Crowley…”

“I wasn’t going to let you get hurt.

“You got hurt.”

“Yeah but that's me and you’re you.”

“You’re speaking nonsense.”

Crowley groans like Aziraphale is stupid, the densest being in creation and for a moment Aziraphale thinks he might be right.

Six thousand years of history flashes through Aziraphale’s mind. The French Revolution. Crowley. A box of chocolates at the opening of a certain bookstore. Crowley. A lazy smile over shared champagne. _ Crowley_.

Did Crowley feel…

Oh goodness.

With his fingers wrapped around Crowley’s ankle, Aziraphale feels like he’s just been presented with the world’s finest cake with the knowledge that he can never eat it. He swallows around the lump in his throat. 

Knowing Crowley felt the same way made this much much more difficult.

“Let’s get you to the couch, my dear,” Aziraphale says softly, not wanting to push at what could almost be called a declaration of feeling. As close as Crowley could probably ever get really.

Aziraphale slips his arm under Crowley’s knees and lifts him into his arms, the demon flailing and spluttering, “Put me down!” 

“Do you want to walk on those things? I imagine it would only make things worse,” Aziraphale says evenly. It’s shockingly easy to be nonchalant now that he knows the lay of the land. They love each other. Not that it matters. Nothing can change. It would be folly to think otherwise.

Crowley pouts while Aziraphale places him on the couch before miracling a basin of cool water and a jar of vaseline.

Aziraphale carefully rolls up Crowley’s pant leg, one after the other, the soft bristle of Crowley’s leg hair tickling against the pads of his fingers as he guides Crowley’s feet into the water and even though Crowley yelps at the change in temperature, it quickly turns into a sigh of relief. “Stay here,” Aziraphale says firmly.

“Where am I going to bloody go,” Crowley grumbles and Aziraphale ignores him in favor of going upstairs and retrieving bandages. He’s never had occasion to use them before but he’d thought it wise to keep them just in case.

When he returns downstairs, Crowley is stretched out on the couch with his eyes closed. He’s somehow laid down on his back with his feet still in the basin on the ground and it looks wildly uncomfortable but who is Aziraphale to judge. Crowley’s taken off his glasses and his face is just as gaunt as Aziraphale remembers, his nose just as crooked. That face, familiar but details forgotten, sets something off in Aziraphale’s chest and more than anything he feels the urge to kneel in front of the couch and trace the counters of those eyebrows, that chin.

“I’m going to bandage your feet,” Aziraphale says softly as his heart beats against his ribs in a fierce rhythm.

Crowley reluctantly lifts his feet from the water and even though Aziraphale can’t miraculously heal them, he can use his powers to dry them. Lifting Crowley’s legs, Aziraphale slips onto the couch and takes his feet into his lap. 

At the first touch of Aziraphale’s jelly slicked fingers on the arch of his foot, Crowley sucks in a breath. It doesn’t sound pained...it sounds surprised. “It’s alright,” Aziraphale says, rubbing a soothing hand along Crowley’s shin, feeling this is as close as he’ll get to showing Crowley what’s in his heart.

Even though Aziraphale knows he should go quickly, be clinical about this, he takes his time with the excuse that he’s being careful, that he’s lingering in this place because he doesn’t want to hurt Crowley.

When he secures the last bandage, he finally looks up at Crowley and catches the tail end of an expression that makes his heart tilt sideways. But before Aziraphale can reciprocate, make sure Crowley _ knows _ as surely as Aziraphale knows, the demon shifts his face into a more familiar sneer.

“It’s going to be bloody torture, dealing with this for weeks,” Crowley grouses and Aziraphale risks reaching out and taking his hand.

“You can stay here,” he says, running his thumb over Crowley’s knuckles. The demon’s eyes go wide. “I’ll take care of you.”

And he thinks Crowley knows what he means.


End file.
